Mere Puppets
by kafka-ish
Summary: With Ryan Hardy in a coma, the surviving Followers, led by fanatical Emma (and a shadowy Joe) focus the spotlight on Mike Weston as their new leading man in the gruesome final book of Carroll's twisted trilogy. UPDATES- Doomed City finale posted!
1. Silence- a sonnet

**Silence- A Sonnet**

Beep…Beep….Beep…Beep…..

I hate that fucking sound.

It's dark in the hospital room, the incessantly bright light from the hallway barely peeking through the curtains pulled tight at the door. The ten by ten room is claustrophobic to me, nearly filled by the bed at its center, leaving just enough room for a chair and a narrow strip of floor to walk on. The air tastes of anesthetic and alcohol; sharp and sickening. The walls are unadorned and faded, and offer no distraction**. **The only movement, the only sound, comes from the beeping heart monitor bolted to the ceiling. Thin multi-colored wires snake out of it, flowing down to attach like alien tentacles to the chest of the only person left in the world that I care about.

Arms crossed, and limbs frozen stiff from hours in the same position, I narrow my eyes and glare at the machine. It's hypnotizing, the beep, beep, beep; like a barber pole the little vertical lines keep slicing upwards and continuing on and on into infinity. Day and night. Never changing, mind-numbing and monotonous. I hate it.

But I need it. Without it I wouldn't even know he was alive.

I scan his chest as I've done a million times before, hopelessly, desperately searching for any sign of life that can be seen by the naked eye. But his breathing is so shallow it's unnoticeable. He never murmurs, his eyes never move behind closed lids. When the nurses come to check his bandages they turn him like a sack of potatoes. His limbs flop with dead weight. His condition never worsens, and it never improves. So for now all I have is a stupid machine and a single stupid sound to let me know he's still in there, somewhere.

Not that I got much out of him normally.

Still.

It's difficult not to watch as the monitor coldly ticks on. It echoes in my head, bouncing and growing louder and louder to my ears in the silent hospital room. It taunts me. Each new spike reminds me of how close and impossibly far away he is. Of how I have to depend on this stupid, mindless machine to let me know his heart is still beating.

I try to shift my position in what must be the world's hardest chair. I'm pretty sure my ass has fallen asleep. Why are hospital chairs always so uncomfortable? I shift again, but it's no help. The padding has probably been worn completely away from hundreds of people doing exactly what I am: sitting, staring and trying not to feel so fucking helpless.

With enormous force I tear my eyes away from the screen to check the battered clock on the wall. 4:45 AM. Terrific.

Standing, I stretch my sore limbs, listening to my battered joints crack and pop. I take a second to work out the knots in my shoulder, kneading my fist deep into the muscle. It hurts like a bitch, but after a second it starts to help. I rub my eyes and face, trying to wipe the exhaustion away. I need to shave. My ass is definitely at least half asleep, and my back aches. And I need coffee.

My eyes dart back to the machine as I leave the room. No change. Surprise, surprise.

The fluorescent lights hum in the small kitchenette set aside for visitors, bright and jarring. Everything seems sharper and more real under them, compared to the fuzzy darkness of Ryan's room. The coffee smells old and sour. It looks like pudding, thick and dark, and I wonder if it will even pour. I swirl it around in the pot, testing it, fascinated by the slow tornado that forms in the center. It circles around and around and around, disappearing down in an endless spiral.

When someone suddenly speaks behind me I nearly have a heart attack, jumping about a foot and almost dropping the pot. The tornado disappears instantly and coffee sloshes out onto my pants and the floor. One of the nurses, Johanna, is standing behind me with a concerned look on her face. I'm abruptly aware that I must have been staring at the coffee for several minutes and I probably look insane. I shake my head trying to clear my thoughts.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask, grabbing a fistful of napkins.

"I said, 'you probably don't want to drink that.'" She's in her fifties and a little stout, and her black hair is twisted into tight braids that are cut short and remind me of Whoopi Golberg. She had dark brown eyes that crinkle when she smiles and are clear and sharp. We've developed a little report over the past couple weeks, and I know from experience that though she may appear calm, inside her mind is furiously ticking away as she watches me. She tells me to call her Jo, but I can't. She's the only one of the staff I've felt comfortable around. I almost trust her. Almost. Trust has kind of been an issue for me lately.

"What doesn't kill you..." I respond and attempt to give her a winning smile. She doesn't buy it.

"Mmhmm. If you don't get some sleep soon, it just might." She says, pursing her lips, and putting her hand on her hip. I shrug her off, trying to finish my cleaning and somehow maneuver the questionable liquid into a cup. I can feel her gaze still on me, steady as a bull. I turn and face her, and we stare each other down for a second or two, but I can't stand the scrutiny and my eyes flash away. She chuckles a bit in triumph and brushes past me to the fridge.

"Any news?" She asks, pulling out a single serving orange juice cup. She means the manhunt. I shake my head. "Too bad. You should think about joining them. It might help."

I watch her down the orange juice like a shooter: all in one gulp. The woman never ceases to amaze me. "The whole country is looking; they've got all the help they need." I respond.

"I meant help you." She says. The unwarranted concern makes me itchingly uncomfortable. I turn away from her and search for creamer. Damn, only the powdered kind, I'll have to drink it black.

"I'm doing just fine where I am, thanks." I say evenly, and a bit more harshly than I mean. She's silent behind me and I worry I've crossed a line. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, mentally berating myself for taking out my frustration on her.

I hear her sigh and the door creak open behind me. "Just don't forget to take care of yourself Agent Weston. Before we have to check _you_ in," she says.

I open my eyes and start to reply, but I'm startled to find a small carton of coffee creamer sitting in front of me. I turn quickly to thank her but she's already swishing out the door.

The room seems darker when I return to it, but the machine of course beeps cheerily on just the same. I try to settle back into the rock hard chair, experimentally taking a sip of coffee. It's just as awful as I imagined, and lukewarm too. I drink it all the same, arching my back as I attempt to find a comfortable position. I try to look around, but like a moth, my eyes are inevitably drawn back to the monitor. I let myself be hypnotized by it and allow my thoughts to wander back over the past two, exhausting, weeks.

_I had been in the middle of the first real sleep I'd had in months when I got the call. With Carroll officially dead and the hunt for his associates warming up, I had left the field office after ten grueling hours of wrap-up interviews and was completely drained. I'd barely arrived at the crummy motel the bureau had put us up in and had fallen asleep as soon as my head had hit the pillow. _

_My cell, when it rang suddenly in the middle of the night, jarred me violently awake. One look at the caller ID – UNKNOWN- had me instantly alert. I eyed the phone warily, allowing it to ring a couple more times before I plucked up the nerve to answer it._

_"Hello?"_

_Silence. _

_"Hello….?" I tried again._

_There was nothing but static on the other end. I pulled the phone away to check that the call was still going. The timer continued to tick on. Whoever was on the other side hadn't hung up. Cautiously I held the phone back up to my ear. I turned up the volume. The static continued, hissing continuously as I pressed the speaker closer to my ear straining to hear whatever I could. The room around me grew quiet and I waited, listening to the sound of nothing. Holding my breath. Seconds ticked by, the silence on the phone roaring in my ears._

_"Are you paying attention Michael?"_

_Startled, I dropped the phone. The voice had been low, but feminine, and in the silence of the room it had sounded as loud as a gun shot. My heart started beating like thunder in my ears, and trying to steady my breathing I scrambled to pick the phone back up._

_"Who is this?" I asked, unintentionally yelling, "Who the fuck is this?!"_

_I jerked the phone away, but this time the screen flashed that the call had been disconnected. Instantly I tried to redial the number, but it was blocked. I tried to run a tracing program I had installed, but it came up a dead end as well. In frustration I threw the phone onto the now crumpled bed spread._

_I made my way into the bathroom and splashed cold water on myself. Staring into the mirror, I was disgusted at how white my face was. How the blues of my eyes seemed to betray the fear I felt inside. I leaned in closer to my reflection, staring deep into my own gaze and forced myself to take slower, calmer breaths. My jaw, shaven only just yesterday, tightened slightly. I forced my eyebrows down and un-furrowed my brow. I continued to breathe evenly until my face hardened and I felt in control of myself again. _

_And that was when the phone rang the second time._

_My heart racing wildly, I lunged across the room. Ring, ring. Digging through the covers, I began to nearly panic as I became unable to find it. Ring, ring, I could hear the incessant tone repeating itself, but it continued to be muffled by the thick blanket. In a frenzy, I finally shook everything off the bed, and heard it tumble to the ground. On what felt like the one hundredth ring, I snatched it up and hastily pressed the answer button._

_"What? What do you want?" I blurted out._

_The person on the other end hesitated a second, but in the pause I noticed normal sounds in the background. The buzz and hum of a busy office at work. Finally a familiar voice, Turner, spoke._

_"Agent Weston? I'm afraid there has been an incident."_

_I drove like a maniac to the hospital. It's a miracle I didn't run anyone over._

_He was in surgery for six hours. They were the longest six hours of my life. I threw myself into the investigation, checking my phone for updates from the hospital literally every ten seconds. It didn't take us long to figure out it was Hardy's neighbor, and ex girlfriend, Molly who had been the attacker. Someone who had been in Ryan's life for years, someone he had trusted. So typical, another confident exposed as a Carrollite. We tracked her phone as far as a truck stop nearly fifty miles away. The sim card had been removed, and the remains of a broken iPhone were found in a ditch nearby. No one had seen her come, or watched her go. She had disappeared._

_I arrived back at the hospital just in time for Ryan to be transferred out of the recovery wing and into the ICU. When I saw him, so white and lifeless on the bed, I felt my heart plummet into my stomach. At first I was convinced he was dead. He had a million tubes and wires coming out of him, and the doctors and nurses surrounded him, plucking at him like vultures. They seemed to swarm over him. I saw a nurse draw a liquid out of a vial into a syringe and bring it towards him, and I was suddenly terrified she meant to harm him. I smacked it out of her hand, screaming insensible phrases about poison. It took Turner and two other agents physically hauling me from the room and threatening to arrest me before I stopped yelling. _

_For the next few days, no one could enter the room without me grilling them on their intent and exactly what they were doing, step by step. I questioned everyone, demanding their credentials and a full background check before they could lay a hand on him. I became obsessed with the idea that one of them was part of Carroll's cult, out to finish the job. I refused to sleep or leave the room, and trusted absolutely no one. I watched the nurses with a fanatical eye even as they performed the most harmless of duties._

_Finally, after a week of next to no sleep, I caved in to the combined efforts of Agent Turner and Johanna the nurse (she was not Ryan's nurse and not allowed to even enter his room, which allowed me to at least discredit her as a threat) and slept on a couch in the visitor's waiting room. I slept that night for a whole eight hours, and only after repeated promises from the FBI that Ryan would be given a full guard, and that I could return the second I woke up. He made it through the night without me, and after that I eased up my watch slightly._

_A few days later, they eased the guard on him, and soon there was no one but me. I continued to stay with him, but kept tabs on the investigation. I was sure he would wake up soon and want a full briefing, but as the days went on and there continued to be no change in his condition, I felt myself become more and more withdrawn. I became completely uninterested in the increasing cold hunt for Molly, and found myself losing track of time in the ever-lit timeless world of the hospital._

I trudge slowly out of my reverie and back into the quiet present, allowing the fog of the past to clear slowly from my head. Glancing down at my forgotten cup of coffee, I take a sip and find it cold. Grimacing, I toss the whole cup into the trash. I feel exhausted. I close my eyes, and roll my head around in a full circle, relishing the silence and feeling the bones crack and the muscles stretch. I stare absently at the ceiling, connecting the little holes in the tiles like constellations. It soothes me, this mindless game of connect the dots. I am tracing these patterns with my mind, when the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. In the base of my skull, an alarm bell begins to ring but I can't immediately place what my subconscious has picked up.

That's when I notice the silence.

No beep, beep, beep.

My head snaps down to look at the monitor. It shows a single straight line tracing across its face, and with a sinking feeling I slowly turn my eyes towards the bed. Ryan is sitting straight up in it, the wires ripped off his chest and clutched in his hand. The covers have fallen off the top half of him, and I can see the bandages covering his wounds have come off, exposing his half-healed surgical scars. But it's his eyes that stop me cold. He is looking straight at me, unblinking, with no expression on his face. I catch my breath and my own eyes widen as we stare silently at each other.

Time slows as we are locked in each other's gaze. I can't even hear him breathing; I only hear the sound of my blood rushing in my ears. My neck feels suddenly like ice and heat at the same time, and my limbs feel shorter, as if only my clenching and unclenching fists exist.

Slowly, a sick grin crosses his face. I feel my heart stop beating all together as he lowers his face and narrows his eyes.

"Something wicked this way comes," he sneers, before putting his hand to his stitches and brutally ripping them out. I see blood gush out of them, pouring down the bed and soaking the covers. All the while Ryan stares intently at me, his grin widening like the pool of red around him.

I wake with a start, gasping for air. My heart is racing again, fast and loud and painful. I see that my hands are clutching the arms of the chair so tightly they are white and my nails have bitten into the wood. The room is brighter, the sun has obviously risen.

Immediately I look to the bed in front of me. Ryan Hardy sleeps on, intact and looking more peaceful than he ever did awake. There is no grin on his face, his eyes are shut, and after a quick inspection I find all the wires and his bandages are in place. I even find slight relief in the machine, as it continues to beep on, the same as it has for more than two weeks.

I must have dozed off. I clench my jaw, and attempt calm myself again. I am infuriated that I fell asleep and that I could be shaken by something as stupid as a simple nightmare. I have got to get myself together, or I know I won't be any help when Ryan wakes up.

_If he wakes up_, a little voice inside me taunts but I steadfastly ignore it. Instead I go in search of fresh coffee.

I am disturbingly proud of myself for merely flinching when my phone rings twenty minutes later. I press the answer button wearily.

"Weston," I mutter, glancing absently up at the monitor I once again loathe.

"Agent Weston, you better get down here." It's Turner again, and his voice sounds tired and drawn. "There's been a development."

I roll my eyes, and try to make my voice sound interested. "That's good news. But can't you just get me up to speed over the phone?"

"No. This one is big. There's been a Carroll sighting," he says it with such importance, I almost laugh out loud.

"Yeah, well sir, that's not really news. Aren't there about thirty a day?" I sigh to myself and stir my new cup of horrible coffee. "No offense, but I think I should keep my focus here for now and-"

"Damnit Weston…" he starts, then I hear someone cut him off and say something inaudible, and he sighs. "If you think it's the right thing to do sir," he responds to the other person, "the line isn't secure." There is a pause. Finally he brings the phone back and speaks to me again. "This one is different, Agent."

"Different how, sir?"

"It's a video. And Mike? It's addressed to you."

**AN: I am aware Ryan's quote is not Poe. I am attempting to widen the literary focus. Wish me luck!**

**Hope you enjoyed this little prelude.**


	2. Doomed City

**A/N- I accidentally posted an older version of this chapter. This is the edited, correct version. few changes really, but they are important ones. Thanks for reading!**

**Doomed City: part one**

The sun is just setting, dark orange and bloated, bobbing on the harbor horizon as I finally enter the city of Baltimore. I've never liked Baltimore, with its gritty, dirty sidewalks, windy alleys and none of the appeal of Manhattan. The weird mixture of wealth and poverty that changes from street to street makes me feel unbalanced, like you can never get a firm grip on the city; you never know where you stand.

They moved the field office here shortly after Carroll's death, the same time the official manhunt for his followers began. Besides being an awful city Baltimore has a history with Poe, so it seemed a perfect gloomy place to set up operations to track down the nutcases obsessed with him. It's not the quickest drive down from New York, and six traffic filled hours and two red bulls later I turn down grimy Baltimore St, out of the glare of the sunset, and into one of the spaces in front of the long, intimidating Central District Police Station.

The station is an old building that has been recently renovated and my footsteps echo on the shiny black granite while I cross the modern lobby. As I clear through security and into the narrow, glass lined hallways I see a whole group lined up and waiting for me. Their faces are grim and determined, their stance stiff, and they remind me of soldiers heading off to war. They are mostly familiar faces, people Ryan and I worked with while we were trying to locate Carroll's son, Joey, and Turner is there too. He watches me out of eyes that seem to have permanent circles etched around them, and his clothes are wrinkled, his shoulders slumped forward. He looks as if he's barely standing. I've heard rumors he will be leaving in a week or two, having given up his role as lead on the case, and it looks like not a day too soon. I catch his gaze and we exchange weary, understanding nods.

A man in the most tightly tucked shirt I have ever seen rigidly steps out from the front of the line and raises a hand to me. It's huge, and perfectly manicured, like he's the type of guy that keeps his job secure by never leaving the safety of his desk. He's taller than me, probably brushing fifty years old, with graying hair that is closely cropped to his head in a no-nonsense way. His face is like a pit bull, lean and serious, and his suit is immaculate, a dark blue that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. I swear if I bent down I could see my reflection in his shoes.

His hulk-like hand all but smothers mine and I'm surprised that it's rough and worn. I hastily recalculate the man (_maybe he has seen some action_) as he introduces himself with a perfectly executed, professional-yet-incredibly-intimidating shake.

"Unit Chief Perry, up from Washington just last week." I'm expecting it to come out like a boom, loud and strong, but instead it's almost quiet. It's dripping authority though, almost as if he's forcing you to talk softer by daring you to speak louder than him. "Glad to finally meet you Agent Weston. How's your partner doing?"

"No better, no worse sir." I respond, shrugging and slightly flattered that people see Ryan as my partner. He releases my hand, and nods. _So much for the personal portion_, I think, as he ushers me down the hallway.

"We received the package sometime this morning. It was initially sorted with the rest of the so-called informant material, until it could be properly authenticated, so it wasn't until an intern un-wrapped it and found your name that we became suspicious. She has played it once, before bringing it directly to me."

He's moving down the hallways at a breakneck speed, his legs taking even but impossibly long strides, and I'm almost forced to run to keep up. His reputation has grown fast, everyone seems to know him on sight and instantly recoils out of his way. "We got nothing from the package it came in, apparently it was dropped off at the station by hand." He continues, barreling on as he speaks and nearly running over a smartly dressed petite blonde woman holding a folder out to him.

"The autopsy report of Taneesha Taylor, sir," she tries to keep her gaze professional and direct as he takes it surprisingly gently out of her hands, but her eyes flick to me momentarily. She's wearing a fitted beige suit with a low cut silky shirt underneath that brings out her bright eyes and makes her look more like a model for business clothes than an FBI agent. Not that I'm complaining. She smiles slightly as she walks away, and it takes me a second to place her before I remember that we shared an absolutely awful date several months earlier. _Well I guess not that awful,_ I think as she looks back and gives me a small wave. I grin back.

"Huh, I went to high school with a Taneesha," I say offhandedly to Perry, still smiling at the woman whose name I can't remember. He looks up from his report, his brown eyes completely serious, and I falter. "Kind of a… an unusual name."

He pauses, as if he's waiting for me to continue, and the smile falls off my face. The moment goes on for entirely too long, before he snaps the folder shut.

"Yes. Well, to business." He says with finality, and points to the briefing room. I shake my head at my own awkwardness and join the others filling in behind him.

"We've had the technical boys take a look at it," he says, closing the door, "although I hear you have some proficiency in that field as well. They assure me that what we are looking at is, in fact, actually Carroll and not some strange composite. We were also able to raise a time stamp on a portion of the video, although there has been a bit of damage to the original tape."

The room is small, containing a cramped office table with six uncomfortable looking chairs pulled up to it, all facing an old TV with a built in VHS player. Perry takes his seat in the middle and slides a battered looking tape in a sealed evidence bag up the table, as three other agents find their chairs around him and Turner sidesteps up to the TV.

The room settles down and becomes tensely quiet as he cuts the ancient machine on, slowly inserting the tape. With a quick glance around, his eyes fall on me and I see a defeated, exhausted look in them that I recognize from my own reflection in the days immediately following Ryan's attack. I remember looking at Ryan that way when the nurses tended to him, as he lay unconscious and helpless in the bed, completely at the mercy of strangers. I return Turner's gaze with a half hearted smile and he coughs, turning back to the TV. With an air of importance, the room holds its breath as he presses play.

Nothing happens.

Turner whips back around and embarrassedly begins to fool with the dials, obviously having trouble finding the correct station for playback. I watch him with growing pity and stifle a yawn. The initial adrenaline rush I received when I got the news about this all-important tape is beginning to fade, especially after a somewhat long drive. Trying not to show my growing boredom, I lean against the wall inside the door and absently fiddle with the peeling green wall paper that is covering the room. Seconds turn into minutes. People begin to chat between themselves, as Turner gets more and more frantic, and I notice even Perry has returned to examining the folder the blonde gave him in the hallway. I wonder irritatingly if this wasn't a huge mistake, and contemplate calling the hospital in New York to check in..

When my cell rings, I almost jump for joy at something to do and I answer without hesitating on the second ring.

There is initial silence and static, and I check my reception. Poor. I hastily move farther down the wall to the only window in the room and try again.

"Hello?" I ask again, peering out the small, dirty window at the darkening city street.

"Hello hello." a voice replies, and the world shudders to a stop.

My mind reels back to a night I visit often in my nightmares. I can still feel the thin plastic cuff biting into my wrists bound tightly behind me, feel the rough wooden chair beneath me; my heart beating wildly against my chest as my eyes follow the gun held in the hand of possibly the world's most notorious serial killer. The flippant sound of his voice, as he puts the barrel against my head and calmly bargains my life for information from Ryan, hasn't changed at all.

"I am surprised by your resilience, Agent Weston." Carroll says, in his drawling english accent that turns my veins to ice, "You are _quite_ the underdog, aren't you? To think you survived that attack in the woods the day poor Debra Parker died. That certainly was a plot twist."

"What the hell-" I stammer out, but Carroll cuts me off.

"You may be wondering why I am sending this to you of all people. Ryan Hardy… well Ryan was a worthy hero, yes, but with him…indisposed… we must turn our attentions onto a new generation and a new story."

In a rush, my blood returns and I feel anger boiling within me. I snap my fingers, trying to get everyone's attention. I point to the phone and mouth 'Carroll' and one of the agents quickly pulls his own phone out to start a trace. Perry raises an eyebrow but calmly waves for me to continue. I turn back to the phone. "Carroll-"

"Shh Shh- this is my favorite part. Go ahead and watch"

"Fixed it," Turner announces proudly, turning to us all as the TV flickers to life and the video begins. His face changes quickly to confusion though, as he sees everyone in the room is facing away from him and staring at me.

But I'm staring at the screen.

It's me.

Walking to the grocery, walking to my car, sitting in the back of an ambulance the night I was beaten by Carroll's guys, drinking coffee, working on my laptop, leaving the hospital in New York… all me. Close ups, long shots, tracking shots, not in any kind of chronological order and all eerily silent. I see myself eat a bagel and chat with another agent. I watch as I run routine errands and slump over an endless array of computers and, worst of all, I watch through a window as I have a quiet conversation with Ryan.

To see Ryan again, awake and lively, hits me like a punch in the stomach.

I unconsciously move closer to the screen as he and I carry on a close discussion I've long since forgotten. In a dimly lit office, we huddle together, debating some aspect of the case. I see myself say something pointedly to him with a smile, and get an even stare back. I watch as he stands, taking a quick drink from his foul-smelling 'water bottle', wearing the same crumpled clothes he never changed, and absently pats me on the shoulder;half-smiling, half-scowling at me as I continue to type, grinning and hunched over my computer.

Hypnotized, my eyes follow him. I feel a rush of emotions crash through me as the mundane moment plays out and I put a hand up to touch the scene, as if I can reach in and pull him out; whole and alive and breathing again- no more wires, no more hospital, no more damned machines.

Abruptly, the image changes to an unfocused crowd.

I pull my hand away as if I've been shocked and take a quick step backwards. I study the screen, confused. I want to see more of Ryan, more of him moving and talking and making dumb heroic decisions and switching back and forth from his stupid vodka to coffee and just, well, _being_. I wait for him to appear again, but the scene remains the same, jolting and unclear I shake my head and force myself to sit.

As the group on the screen talks to each other animatedly, the image blurs and refocuses until the faces come sharply into view. Those around me murmur worriedly as we see that everyone in the group has on the same, expressionless, simple mask. My eyes snap from one disturbing identical face to the next before the image is jostled, and after a few thrilling seconds of elbows and armpits, the camera is finally secured and we get a clear view of the video's subject.

Conversing quietly and definitely un-masked, is Joe Carroll.

I dimly hear Perry bark out a quiet order as everyone around me gasps. I try to feel surprised, but familiar dread creeps up my spine.

He's sitting in an arm-chair and smiles brightly. He looks beyond the camera for a moment, before nodding and turning his gaze towards us. The room hushes. He beams and spreads his hands wide.

"Hello, hello friends new and old." Carroll begins. "We are about to start another journey together." The film fuzzes out for a second, becoming distorted. Obviously the damage mentioned earlier, I think. His face comes back into focus a moment later. "Now I know we have had our differences. For instance, I think you all to be quite limited in your thinking and you- well let us be honest: you think I am insane." He shrugs, "However, 'I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.'" He winks.

"But to the point: My first book was about the beauty of death. The second was a romance, albeit," another distortion, "-between my wife and me, but sometimes you just have to let the story write itself." He chuckles, and sighs. "This third, and final, will be a coming of age story.

"My friends are finally ready to come into their own and so are you. It is time for you to let go of your hero-worship and become the hero yourself. We must all find our own vision to believe in, and try not be swayed by those that would oppose or censor us." The people behind the masks grow excited while their plastic faces remain disturbingly calm. The image momentarily distorts again to snow before resolving. "You are going to have to learn to be strong, to trust yourself and your instincts. Steele yourself, we have a long road to travel and quite a battle ahead. You see, 'the world seems full of good men," he pauses, before grinning mischievously, "but there are _monsters_ in it.'"

The video ends with Carroll still staring straight at us as snow fills the screen. For a whole minute no one moves, and I listen vaguely to the thumping of my heart. Finally Turner raises a shaky hand and switches off the TV. With a loud cough, Perry assumes control of the room.

"Well people, what do we know?"

It's like he's broken a spell and the room comes roaring to life. People start spouting information like leaky fountains, ('trying to identify-' and 'Cross checking-') and I suddenly remember the phone in my hand. With a start I bring it back up to my ear, but the line is dead. I look to the agent who was tracing the call, but he is engrossed in conversation. I let my hand fall back onto the table, my limbs slacken and I can't seem to find the energy the rest have instantly summoned. I'm not surprised at the sudden re-emergence of Carroll. I think a part of me was never convinced he was really gone. Instead, I'm still reeling from the image of Ryan. I can't get over the sight of him, so drastically different from the lifeless form in the hospital bed, and I'm vividly aware of how much has changed in so little time. I stare absently down at the fake grain of the table in front of me and try to energize my limbs but I feel like I'm moving through cotton.

A helpful agent next to me is chirping incessantly up at Perry. "Nothing from recent hotel or motel transactions either, sir." He continues and Perry nods. "Oh and the phone call wasn't long enough to do a full trace, but we know it originated from a local payphone. We're checking local security footage: ATM's and building cameras might have picked something up." he flits around Perry like a cheery, helpful sparrow. I almost roll my eyes at his enthusiasm.

"Excellent. What about the quote? Which Poe story are we looking at now?" Perry asks, consulting with another agent who has appeared cooperatively at his elbow. His comment stirs me back to life.

"It's not Poe." I mumble. He raises an eyebrow at me and I sigh. "I don't know _who_ it is, but I've spent the last couple months knee deep in his crap and I can tell you _that's_ not Poe."

"Then be sure to find out who it is," he says, "And then join the technical team on the manhunt, they could use another hand. Updates." He gestures wide, encompassing the room before I can respond, "Everyone. As soon as you have them." Clapping his hands, he exits.

It takes me a full ten seconds to register that he's left, and another ten to disentangle myself from the diligent agents bustling about the tiny room. I'm gasping for air as I catch up with Perry, who has made it halfway to the other end of the building already, to his temporary office.

"Chief-" I actually have to slip my foot in the door to stop it from slamming shut. "Chief, I just need a minute." He turns to me with a polite, but firm smile.

"I only have a second," he ushers me inside.

"Sir, I think that I could be more useful in this case. I have first hand knowledge of Carroll and-" I start, but he holds up a hand to cut me off.

"I think I know what you're looking for, but I don't think it's a good idea. After such an obvious threat on your life, it would be best if you take a back seat, Agent. For your own safety, of course." he sits, and begins perusing some folders on his desk.

"Wait, what? What threat?" I ask, completely confused. He continues to read the file in front of him. "The phone call?"

"The video, Agent Weston. As you will remember, we didn't get a trace on that call you received. No, that video was a clear and announced threat on your life. You need to stay in the shadows."

"Sir, look, I've had a lot of experience with Carroll, and unfortunately I think I might actually be his new focus, not the most recent threat. I'm thinking we should-"

He stops reading. "Agent Weston, I respect your experience in the previous investigation and your close relationship with Ryan Hardy. But as much as I'm sure you would love to jump into Agent Hardy's shoes, and perhaps onto the fast track to your own true crime novel-" he looks up pointedly at me, but I cut him off.

"You think I'm lying to get a book deal?" I can't believe him.

"I think that when there's a case of this importance, and immense media attention, that things can often be, unconsciously, misconstrued. Especially for those who are on their way up the career ladder."

I shake my head, stunned. "Except that in the conversation he actually said-"

"The conversation that, as you'll recall, no one else actually heard, and could probably be taken many different ways. Perhaps you simply misunderstood."

"Misunderstood?! You seriously think-?"

"Agent Weston," his voice is quiet but firm, and I instantly shut up. "Until you can come to me with concrete evidence that Carroll is focusing on you in any way other than as a threat-" he pauses, and looks at me but all I can do is sigh and shake my head, "then this conversation is over."

XXXXX

I fly out of the police station, stunned and fuming, and it takes nearly thirty minutes before I feel my muscles begin to relax and my jaw unclench. I can't believe things have taken such a turn, and that Perry could be so blindly wrong about me. I wish Ryan was here, so we could laugh at how ridiculously off track he is, and I try and think what he would do if it had happened to him. _Whatever he wanted_, I think with a grin and imagine him blatantly disregarding Perry's orders, or maybe just telling him where to stick it.

Finally, I suck up my pride, realizing I'm not Ryan Hardy and decide to return to join the research team. The street lamps are just coming on and a stiff breeze has picked up, and I'm drawn by the bright, cheery warmth of a coffee shop on my way back to the station. On a whim, I walk in, almost convincing myself it's because I need to wake up; not because I don't want to face Perry right away.

There's a long line in the crowded Starbucks when I dazedly walk in. I take my place behind a large man in a tattered tweed coat and try and let my mind calm down, but I'm so antsy I can't keep still. After glancing at the line, which still hasn't moved, I pull out my phone and start researching the quote from Carroll's video. It isn't easy though, mostly because I can't really remember it and frustrated, I click off my phone.

The man in front of me finally makes it up to front of the line, when his cell promptly rings and he answers it. He goes on to have a loud, increasingly personal conversation with what I can only hope is his wife while trying to order a ridiculously complicated whipped coffee. Jittering my foot in irritation, I gaze out the windows and drift off again.

"Wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats," I remember a few minutes later and murmur to myself. I hear a giggle in front of me and I'm surprised by a cute brunette with a large name tag reading 'my name is Denise: ask me how I can help,' smiling back at me. The man in the tweed coat has finally moved, and I was so spaced out I hadn't noticed the line moving forward.

Apologizing, I order my coffee. She smiles a lot during my order, tossing her long curly hair back and laughing, and I spend a solid ten minutes flirting with her at the pick-up counter. We chat aimlessly for a few minutes, and I finally feel myself relaxing, when her attention is caught by something behind me. I turn, half curious.

On the TV is the same petite blond woman I saw in the hallway of the precinct earlier. _Kate Sheppard!_ I pride myself for remembering, but as I watch, I notice something is eerily wrong with her. The blazer she had on is missing, she is instead wearing some sort of frilly looking white shirt and while her hair is still pinned up in a tight bun, parts of it have been pulled out as if she has been struggling. I can see odd tear stains on her face, and from what I can see from behind dark sunglasses her make-up seems smudged. _A press conference with sunglasses on? At night? _I think as I watch her talk, or try to. She nervously moves her head around while she speaks, but I can't hear anything she is saying. I bark for someone to turn on the sound.

"- terrible struggle that I have had against sleep," She chokes out, saying every word without emphasis, awkwardly and obviously trying to fight down hysterics before continuing, "the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of fear of sleep, and with such unknown horror as it has for me." She glances to the right as if straining to listen to someone, and as she turns I see with a jolt that her ears have been sewn shut. I blink my eyes, unsure of what I'm seeing, and I feel my nerves tense.

"How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads," she stammers, hiccuping. She's crying as she speaks, and a weird mixture of blood and tears are flowing down her face. My stomach tightens as I watch her, and in the panic stricken cafe I can barely understand the last few words, "to whom sleep... is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings n-nothing b-but... sweet dreams." She finally breaks down sobbing, her sunglasses flying off.

My breath catches and I'm horrified to see her eyes have also been clumsily sewn shut, the lids bulging and bruised while blood clots at the edges. My mind goes blank and I hear people start to cry out as blood and tears mix and run down her face. A hand grasps her shoulder and she cries out, screaming and frantically shaking her head. Her voodoo-like eyes burn into my mind and seem to remain even as the video ends and a stunned newscaster again takes up the screen. The coffee shop explodes into nervous yelling and people start fighting each other out the door.

"Oh my god," the barista chokes out beside me, horrified. I've completely forgotten she's there. "What a freaky coincidence."

I'm looking for a lid and thinking I should just toss the damn coffee, when I'm stopped by her comment, my heart skipping a beat.

"What coincidence?" I ask slowly.

"The quotes," she answers simply, still glued to the TV. My chest tightens, and I fight the urge to shake her.

"What-," I say as calmly as I can, "what quotes?"

"When you first stepped up you were quoting from Dracula. So was she." She finally turns her face from the news and I must be looking at her like a lunatic because she stammers out: "I-I'm a classic literature major at Towson. We've been studying Stoker."

I literally bolt from the coffee shop, running down at least three people.

I return, breathless, to a police station in chaos.

Perry has taken over the entire first floor squad room, which is a mob of screaming, frantic police and FBI agents. Papers are strewn everywhere, and I can barely hear myself think over the din the phones are making, ringing non-stop from every desk. People are running back and forth, anxiously passing each other reports on twisted pieces of paper, like some kind of fucked up relay race. Perry is standing straight and solid as ever in the middle of the madness; a rock of calm in a stormy sea of hysteria. His coat is tossed on a chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing massive arms, while he gazes at a large monitor. He reviews the tape from the news stoically, all the while issuing quiet orders and intently listening to updates. I fight my way across to him.

He towers over me, remote held tightly in his hand while he considers the newly restarting video.

"It's Dracula," I say, without explanation or introduction.

"We know," he responds, without even glancing away.

I open my mouth to correct him, when another agent nearly runs me down.

"Sir, we've confirmed the site. It's the Poe memorial in the background." I hear him say in a low voice, and with a sinking feeling I know that no matter how fast we drive, no matter how ironically close the station is to the scene, we'll be too late.

In the flashing lights an hour later, I stomp my feet to keep out the chill and sip on yet another foul, cold cup of coffee. I stare down at it, peering into the Styrofoam, and intensely wish it was something a bit stronger. Narrowing my eyes, I try to keep my focus on it, or the ivy on the wall, or the crumbling gate of Westminster Church, or the bricks beneath my feet. But my gaze unconsciously slips back to the scene in front of me.

Firemen have erected a tall ladder in front of the tiny block of marble that commemorates Poe's work and are nearly finished carefully cutting down the limp body hanging by its wrists from the church roof. I watch, detached, as they lower it to the plastic body bag laid out below, the white nightgown swaying in the breeze and revealing pale, thin legs. With a jolt I remember how smooth they were, how I had rested my hand absently on her thigh just this past summer. She had worn short summer dress and we had gone to a bar to watch a band. Her hair had been shorter then. I remember the bored look she had as we painfully tried to keep the conversation up, but how her eyes had lit up while the music played.

Her head is the last thing to settle, and those now sewn, bloody eyes seem to stare at me from across the yard. Her head rolls and her hair loosens from its bun and I still see her mouth, grinning sickly and sewn into a permanent smile, before they zip the bag shut.

I gulp down the rest of my coffee when a few minutes later I see the crime scene coroner stand up from beside her and stretch his limbs. I walk towards him as he snaps off his gloves and sighs, turning towards an increasingly haggard looking group of agents.

"Cause of death?" Perry asks

"Too soon to tell without a full autopsy. Off the record though? I have no idea. Its just like the others." he says, and Perry nods.

"Others?" I ask, trying to look like I have all the right to ask the question. Perry responds to me without even looking.

"Two other women, Taylor and Roberts. Both found in white nightgowns, hung by their wrists. Sheppard was investigating their deaths, but we haven't been able to definitively determine cause of death." he shakes his head.

"There's more," the coroner says cautiously, but Perry merely gazes at him expectantly. "She's got two huge puncture wounds in her neck. Just like the other two."

"Dracula." I say, almost to myself. Perry nods.

"The quote, I know." he says, distracted by the crime scene technicians carting the dark body bag away. I try not to think about how many agents I've seen zipped up and carted away since this whole mess began, instead turning to face Perry directly.

"Actually, I was trying to tell you before. The quote from the Carroll video: it's also from Dracula." He rips his eyes away from the scene and glares down at me.

"You're sure?" he growls at me, and I nod, holding up my phone which I've used to do a little research while we were waiting. He shakes his head, and hands it back to me. "Well then, not only does Baltimore have a serial killer on the loose, but this ties them to Carroll." he sighs, looking at me before nodding to himself.

"Congratulations Weston," he says, without any zeal, and his face looks like he's bitten into a lemon, "you officially have a case."

**I hope you enjoyed- updates soon! Feel the anticipation yet? (If not, then just don't tell me, alright?)**


	3. Interlude one

**Interlude 1**

Emma smiled as she watched the news, leaning against the tough high back chair and letting the lights flash across her face in the dark. Her sharp eyes burned from lack of sleep, but she ignored them. She needed to see this, needed to be sure that everything was still on track and that for once everyone was playing their part correctly. Especially Thomas. He was such a wild card, the young Dracula obsessed mascara wearing weirdo; always improvising. She was constantly worried that he might feel 'inspiration' strike him and go off script, and there was nothing Emma hated more than people who couldn't follow simple directions.

The bedroom she was sitting in was sparse and empty, _(practically empty,_ she mused) tucked away in a small apartment, with odd, ugly furniture. She despised the place. It forced her into ridiculously close proximity with the rest of the group, and she was glad they would be leaving in a few days. Already Keenan was out scouting their next new home as he ran his errands, but for now it would do; it was inconspicuous and most importantly, quiet. If she closed her eyes and concentrated her attention, she could barely hear the others moving around in the living room beyond the closed door, and could pretend for a moment that she was utterly alone.

She let her eyes slide open again and continued to watch the news unfold, nodding contentedly as the story on the screen rolled out just as planned. Joe was very specific on the plan, although as always allowing his friends to spread their creative wings where needed. She had been skeptical at first; the abrupt change of focus seemed to her a great chance to take. But he had been right, as always, and to see each step in action had helped to rally her spirits.

There was a slight knock on the door, and she pulled herself out of her reverie and called out a welcome.

Stumbling and just as shy as ever, Shelley nearly tripped into the room. She was thirty with plain, mossy brown hair, round smudgy features and a slightly overweight build. She wore ill fitting clothes and walked hunched over, and coupled with a self-esteem complex she gave off the impression of being twice her size. She disgusted Emma, who wanted to recoil at the plump hand that was extended towards her. But Shelley was useful in her own way; she was blindly, ridiculously loyal, would follow any order enthusiastically and could be surprisingly vicious while in the pursuit of pleasing her mentor. Emma worked a cold smile onto her face and accepted the ringing cell phone from her. Before answering, she twisted a kitchen timer and set it softly down of the bed beside her.

"Yes." She answered the phone curtly.

"Did you see the news?" the voice replied. Emma contained the urge to sigh

"Yes of course."

"Good job, huh?" came the eager response. _Like children_, she thought_, they all need the most ridiculous encouragement._

"Don't waste time," she snapped. "Are you ready for the next step?"

"Yeah, no worries. Picked up a little something _to go_ a bit ago, if you know what I mean," was the smug reply. She responded with chilly silence. The caller hesitated, before coughing. "Yeah, yeah. It's all set up. This is my show after all. 'I have the red light of triumph in my eyes, and a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.'"

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. "Whatever. The car is ready for you when you're finished. You'll have to top it off on your way." She glanced back at the ticking timer, clicking closer towards zero. "Any foreseeable problems?"

"Not on this end. Maybe up in-"

"No specifics." She barked. There was a pause. "Anything else?"

"Nope, all set. 'For it is without-"

"Call if anything comes up," she interrupted, as the timer rang. "And ditch the phone." She hung up.

_Like children_.

Emma walked to the closed blinds and peeked out at the busy city below, wrinkling her nose as a pervasive, nasty smell wafted towards her. She handed the phone back to cowering Shelley, who accepted it with a seriousness that made her want to laugh out loud.

"Everything alright?" Shelley asked in a whiny, high pitched voice.

"Of course of course." _As if I would confide in you, piggy_ she sneered in her mind. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts and keep her calm. The time wasn't yet right to be completely herself. She couldn't afford to lose a single, depressing one of them with their numbers so small.

_Small but dedicated_, she reminded herself, echoing Joe's words for comfort.

A fly flew across her face, and she shooed it away, nearly smacking the woman she had already forgotten was still in the room. Shelley was gazing at her with what she probably thought was a demure look, but she had lowered her head and created a series of double chins that made her look more like a hairless pug.

"We were wondering," she simpered and Emma glared at her reflection in the glass, "if there was any chance we might be staying on here a little longer?"

"You know the rules." She finally turned and faced the woman. "That's clear?" The woman nodded. "Good. Now get packing." She swatted another fly. "Oh and do something about the mess. Use the bathtub this time."

She turned back to the window and stifled another sigh, ignoring the cow-like woman as she struggled to pull, bump and drag the stiffening and increasingly foul smelling corpses of the apartment's previous occupants out of the room and down to the bath.

She let her head rest against the cool glass as she heard the messy work begin. _Miles to go…_

_/\/\/\/\/\/\_

**Thanks for the support ****and enjoy…for now. **


	4. Doomed City: part 2

**Thanks to everyone that's been reading and commenting and waiting! It was a long holiday, but I've finally finished editing and putting the finishing touches on this first series. I'll be publishing the final chapter to Doomed City (part 3) next week right before the season premiere, then the following week starting the second series. **

**So, as always, enjoy!**

**Doomed City (part 2)**

I stifle a yarn, stretching my back as I check my phone for the time: 8:45 AM. Across the metal table Perry glares at me as my spine cracks and pops, and I smile humorlessly back at him. He scowls, returning his attention to the file in his hand, his posture as still as ever, and his rigidity annoys me. I begin to tap my foot impatiently.

We're waiting for the medical examiner to join us, stuck in a windowless, airless, lifeless room that time has clearly forgotten and could only be used for autopsy. The equipment is old; ancient, thick monitors and stained steel cover nearly every surface along with a wide range of tools whose purpose I'd rather not think too hard about. The room has a pungent, death-smell that penetrates deep into my lungs, forcing me to breathe shallow, unnatural breaths. I shift uncomfortably, glancing down at the body wheeled in and placed before us, looking quickly away as the grotesque face that has been haunting me every time I close my eyes comes into view. I see Perry's eyes watching from over the top of his file, but they snap back down and moment later, and he says nothing so I shrug it off.

The halogen lights buzz above us as we wait, the only sound is a clock that ticks on and on from some unseen corner and each click seems to stretch out and echo. My muscles are aching, my neck stiff from hours bent over a computer and the humming lights seem to have halos around them. The ticking continues, monotonous and steady until I'm sure I hear it slowing down; each second becoming longer and longer. I rub my eyes and refocus. I'm going to have to start another search for awful coffee soon.

"This is a weird one, gentlemen," the medical examiner announces as he bursts into the room, ironically loud and full of life. He has a huge, bulging stomach that pulls his lab coat tight and his balding head is large; his face unshaven. Course dark hair covers his chin and neck, and the loose skin wobbles like a turkey as he chews on a piece of jerky, glancing through the file while his mouth continuously munches the thick meat stick. It feels almost grotesque in the setting, but no one else seems disturbed so I keep my face straight. His movements are erratic and fast but when he speaks, his voice is devoid of any speed, as if being constantly surrounded by the dead has made him lose any sense of urgency.

"Meet Special Agent Katherine Sheppard." He starts, "Thirty two years old, five years in the bureau and dead for fourteen hours. On the surface she appears exactly like the victims in her case: not a lot of bruising; small cuts that look self-defensive, obvious contusions to the wrists caused pre-mortem and most importantly," He turns her head to the side, "two large puncture wounds in the neck. All orifices have been sewn shut; eyes, ears, mouth, nose, anus-"

"We get the drift." Perry interrupts, "Anything on the sewing material?" The large man looks annoyed at the interruption but shakes his head.

"It's thick black yarn, common and untraceable. We're looking at suture needle for this job though; the stitching has become more sophisticated with each victim, meaning our guy has some medical experience but not much." He shrugs his shoulders "Now, if I may continue?" Perry nods in assent.

"Limbs are edemous, and post-mortem temperature was 100.8 a full two hours later. Aside from the puncture marks and defensive wounds the skin appears untouched except for what appears to be a developed, wide spread rash…"

He drones on, his voice bored and uninterested, as if he's reciting a grocery list instead of the intimate details of a woman's body. I watch his open mouth gnaw on the jerky, and force myself to stay calm and bear with him as he continues.

"In her possession: one stained white nightgown, one FBI badge (hers), one pair of gold earrings and absolutely no other physical evidence: no finger prints, no sign of sexual assault and no foreign fibers on her body. Cause of death appears to be hypotension." He pauses to rip a large chunk off the meat stick, and I fight the urge to be sick. "Now here's where it gets weird."

"Now it gets weird?" I mutter, but Perry shoots me a look. The doctor glances up from his folder and eyes me for a second as if he's only just realized I'm there, but with a wave from Perry he continues.

"Well the cause of death in your first victim was blood loss; she bled out from the puncture wounds in her neck. But our girl here, like the second victim, has no apparent reason to have died. Hypotension is often cause by extreme hemorrhage, or blood loss, but when I measured the volume of the blood it was 3.7 liters and consistent with her body weight. So I ran a tox screen, to compare against the other two victims, and got some interesting results, including epinephrine, dopamine and strangely, digoxin."

"Strangely?" I ask.

"In a way. Digoxin is a hypertensive agent and can cause acute psychosis: not your typical tranquilizer. And since she died of low blood pressure while obviously taking a medication that specifically raises it, well, I decided to take a second look. So I took all new samples, straight from the brain, by inserting a 20 gauge needle up the-" But Perry holds up a hand.

"Let's skip ahead. Is there's something helpful about these drugs? Something definitive?"

The coroner is off put for a second, almost affronted by the audacity of being cut off again. He sighs as if to show his exasperation at being constantly surrounded by those always in a hurry, and with grave-like slowness resumes his report. "Actually, no. Epinephrine and dopamine are found naturally in the body, although not usually at such high levels, and the amount of digoxin wasn't fatal. No, the anomaly was actually the blood itself.

"I found high levels of hemoglobin and bilirubin," His speech quickens to slightly faster than a snail, the equivalent of excitement for him, but I feel my eyes start to glaze over. Behind me I hear Perry take a slow, frustrated breath. The medical examiner glances at him, but pretends not to hear and continues at the same pace, "as with the others, but also sickle cell factors, which is abnormal, so of course I ran an indirect COOMBS test." He pauses, looking at us. "It came back negative."

The silence stretches on as we stare at him, uncomprehending, but I feel my heart beat quicken.

"Cause of death was an acute hemolytic reaction." He states, as if this should be obvious and miraculous at the same time. It's an anticlimactic moment, and I almost laugh out loud.

"And that means?" Perry asks calmly and, as far as I'm concerned, with an abnormal amount of patience.

"It's a transfusion reaction," the large man explains, "and a rare one. A negative test means she wasn't compatible." We stare at him expectantly, and he sighs in frustration before continuing. "The blood we found inside Sheppard is A negative. But she was B positive."

"Are you saying-?" Perry asks, but my mind is already racing.

"It's not her blood." The medical examiner says, a little too proudly. "So I took out everything we had on our second victim, Taylor, and ran that blood again. It was A positive. Taylor was A negative, and when I checked her medical records I noticed she also had a recessive sickle cell gene common with her race, that wasn't present in the samples from the blood we found inside her. Meaning-"

"It wasn't her blood either." Perry finishes for him. "But this recessive gene was found in the blood inside Shepard?"

"You guessed it." Perry nods, and the doctor raises his eyebrows meaningfully but the implications are lost on me.

"What are you saying?" I ask. The medical examiner looks at Perry, who answers me.

"He has literally been draining the blood out of each girl and replacing it with his previous victims'."

There is a pause as we all consider this.

"What the hell?" I ask, disgusted. "Why?"

"I don't care about the why, I care about how." Perry interrupts, "Is it difficult? Does it take skill?"

The medical examiner shrugs. "Not particularly. He would need some basic medical experience and the supplies: two large needles, IV tubing and containers for the blood, but transfusions are actually done using gravity so not much else."

"Alright, but what actually kills them? People don't usually die from getting blood."

"Well each blood type is actually physically different from the others." The doctor responds, leaning back against the wall, as his voice takes on a steady lecturing tone. "Different blood types are told apart by their antigens." He sees our uncomprehending faces, and grabs a piece of paper. "There are four blood types, forgetting about Rh positive and negative for a second: Type A, B, AB and O." He draws four circles on it, filling one with triangles, one with small stars, one with both and leaves the last one empty.

"Let's say the triangles are A antigens and the stars are B antigens. They actually look different don't they? That's how blood is. Now, you can never add anything when it comes to blood. For instance, if you tried to mix A blood with B blood, it wouldn't work because you would be trying to add triangles to the stars. Alright? Okay, so," He points to the circle with both triangles and stars, "type AB starts that way, mixed, and can receive both A and B because it doesn't _add_ anything. Obviously can't be given to either A or B though: it would be trying to add triangles to the stars or stars to the triangles." We nod, and he gestures to the last circle, the blank one. "Type O blood is the universal donor, because it is completely empty of antigens and won't ever add anything. Ironically though it can the only receive itself. So if the wrong type is put into the blood stream, or transfused transfused, the body recognizes those differences that are trying to be added and reacts to the foreign blood like an infestation, attacking it."

"What happens then?" Perry asks in a quiet voice. The coroner furrows his brow, thinking, as if this is a mere clinical discussion.

"These women would experience massive pain as the blood coagulated and hardened like lead in their veins; tachycardia or a pulse so rapid it would have felt like a heart attack; severe fever and chills followed by extreme anxiety and delirium; and finally their blood pressure would plummet until they lost consciousness and died."

"Holy shit," I murmur. "How long does it take?"

"A hemolytic reaction, which is what we call the body's response to an incorrect blood type transfusion, happens rather quickly. Within the first fifteen minutes actually, and once the heart stopped beating it would be impossible to complete a full transfusion. So he kept them alive, and awake, long enough to survive the several hour long procedure by pumping them full of epinephrine to keep the heart beating and the digoxin to sustain blood pressure. Then he simply stopped the meds and allowed the body to kill itself."

He covers her back up, and I watch as her ruined face with its twisted sewn doll eyes disappears beneath the drape. Even as I'm ushered out of the room, I can't stop staring at the outline beneath the sheet.

In the hallway Perry pulls me quickly aside. I'm still processing and inwardly scowl at his grip on my arm, but keep my gaze steady on him.

"Is there a problem Weston?"

I give him a puzzled look and shake my head, trying to pull away, but he holds me in place. Now I'm sure he saw how uncomfortable I was around Sheppard's corpse. We stare each other down for a second, but I can't stand the close inspection and I quickly look away.

"It's nothing." I shake my head, and rub the back of my neck, "I went on a date with Kate a few months ago. Not a great one, but she seemed like-" I cut myself off, not really sure what I'm saying. When I look up, he's still staring at me with serious, inquisitive eyes. I sigh. "Look, I've lost a lot of people in this investigation, sir. And after Parker-" I trail off. I'm surprised by the seemingly touching look he has when I glance back up at him. I almost take a step backwards.

"Is this going to be an issue?" he asks quietly.

My eyebrows furrow, and I feel thrown. "No, sir." I answer cautiously.

He lets go and hands me the case folder, patting me on the shoulder. I swear I see a sad look cross his face, but I could be hallucinating from caffeine deficiency. I can't stand when people look at me with pity, and especially can't stand it on his normally emotionless face, so I cover my unease by flipping the case file open. I'm halfway through the first page when a familiar name catches my eye. I turn to Perry, but he has walked off and is of course a mile away already.

"Sir, wait, sir!" He pauses in a conversation with another agent as I run up to him and he looks at me with his regular, inattentive brown eyes.

"Is this right?" I ask, "The first victim was named Cecile Roberts?"

He finishes signing a form held out to him before facing me.

"If it's in the file, it's correct. Is it important?"

"No, it's just-" I blink, trying to collect my thoughts. "I interviewed a woman with that name six months ago."

"And, Agent Weston?" he asks impatiently, already bored with me. I shake my head.

"Nothing. Never mind. Just a weird coincidence." I look up to smile reassuringly at him, but he's already walking away.

_/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/_

Hours go by, and I spend them diligently working on comparing the aspects of the case. I receive a slight shock when I finish reading the file and find out that the Cecile Roberts in the morgue really is the same woman I interviewed months before, but there aren't any other connections between the case I had been working then and the victims in my current situation, so I shrug it off.

In fact, I'm struggling to find connections between any of the victims, except for Sheppard's investigating their deaths. After my initial review I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that they weren't random killings, as Shepard had concluded, but instead were somehow connected. But no matter how long I work, the link stays annoyingly unattainable, like a word stuck on the tip of the tongue.

They had no similar friends, doctors or even visits to the same restaurants. All had different jobs, hobbies and were snatched from different parts of town. Two were local, one visiting; one black, one Hispanic and one white; different hair styles, colors and cuts; two without any ID, one with (Sheppard's FBI badge); two with A blood (although one with sickle cell trait), one B positive. They were, for all purposes, the most random collection except for only one thing in common: young, female and pretty.

I'm sipping what must be my thousandth cup of office coffee when my eyes start to blur and I decide its time to take a break.

I lean back in my chair and watch the people swarming around me. A dead agent is a big deal, and mixed in with a notorious serial killer, it can launch an investigation into a frenzy. So as the day slowly turns to night, I attempt to relax my aching muscles and watch them scurry around like ants.

I'm not even aware at first of the thoughts creeping up on me, and I desperately try to distract myself as images flash through my mind;

The dark hospital room I left only a day ago with that never ending beep looming over Hardy;

_Focus on the agents, running back and forth._

The eerie, identical, blank faces of Carroll's fucking freak followers as they plan their new book;

_Focus on the case file, work through it._

Sewn eyes of three beautiful women that have been starring incessantly, tauntingly, back at me out of crime photos for hours;

_Focus on coffee, you need coffee._

The sucking, sinking feeling that Carroll will never actually die, that he will always return like some twisted real-life Dracula, and could be just around any corner to drag me back to that hellish night I had to fight in his twisted game, or when I had to practically plead Hardy with my eyes to keep me alive while I sat, (useless again!) tied up in that damn basement.

_Focus!_

With huge effort, I take several deep breaths and try to push everything from my mind, but soon they begin mix together, boiling within me until they simmer down to one, depressing realization.

_I have no idea what I'm doing._

With an immense surge of emotion, I desperately wish Ryan was with me. He would know exactly what to do now, which lead to follow, which orders to ignore. I have somehow maneuvered myself into the top position of a case way out of my league and have no fucking idea how to continue. I felt like a fake when I was forced to give those assigned to the case orders, leads to explore that I would have felt wildly more comfortable following up on my own. I tried to keep my demeanor indifferent, like Hardy or even god-forbid Perry, but inside I was a mess. I wasn't surprised at all that all of my ideas came up as dead ends. Hours ago I abandoned the pointless and unhelpful updates cheerful junior agents were constantly shoving at me, their faces stiff with fake smiles as they informed me of failure after failure. Eventually I ran out of even bad ideas, and they slowly began to rejoin the larger investigation searching for Joe Carroll, but occasionally I catch them glancing back across the room at me with pitying looks.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing loudly as I attempt to force myself to remain outwardly calm. Turner enters the room and makes a straight line for me, and I'm glad for the interruption until I see his face.

"Bad news Mike. They found another victim." I clench my teeth and follow him out to the car.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

She's hanging from her wrists, tied to the chimney of an unassuming brick row house on a street corner. All the streetlights in the surrounding area have been smashed, and the glass crunches beneath my feet as I lean back against the cold metal. The bright crime scene lights over compensate the darkness, ominously lighting the limp form, as the trademark white nightgown rustles in the growing breeze. Even from a distance I can see the death mask, the grinning sewn mouth laughing at me from across the street. Turner comes up behind me with Perry and another agent who looks at me as if he's thrilled to not be in my shoes. I take a slow breath.

"It's the Baltimore Poe museum," I say to them, pointing at the row house. "He's choosing locations that are connected to Poe, even if his inspiration comes from the Dracula novels, as a nod to his idol Carroll."

"We're assuming this isn't Carroll himself?" Perry asks.

"Joe Carroll does very little killing himself these days," I say, watching the firemen work, "often leaving it to his followers, his 'friends.' He convinces them to carry out his specific wishes while allowing them to follow their own path and use artistic license." I am depressed by the detached sound my voice has, but push on. "In the previous investigation this was translated as their own 'chapters,' each follower having free reign as long as he or she completed a certain task that Carroll required. They were pretty closely related to the works of Edgar Allen Poe, as you know, but I think we are seeing a break from that pattern. A loosening of rigidity."

I pause as we watch the body being lowered to the ground. I don't want to look at it, so I cover by glancing at Turner for encouragement, but his face is like a stone. I continue.

"Still, there are traces of Poe and of Carroll in this case. The eyes, the locations, and the fact that all the victims are young, beautiful women."

"Is it a close enough match that we may be looking at his most fanatic follower, Emma?" Turner asks, but I shake my head.

"Doubtful," I say, fishing a notepad out of his pocket, "the witness that called it in was walking his dog and saw a young black male hoisting her up there and fleeing the scene." I point behind us to an older man clutching a dog leash and speaking with police officers.

"When was this?" Perry asks.

"Around dusk, probably 5 pm." I look up quickly and see the expression on their faces and shrug. "He thought it was some kind of disturbing local art, so he didn't call it in until he saw Sheppard's murder on the news." I flip it closed and turn my attention back to the bright lights.

Perry clears his throat, glancing over at the police barricade where the media cameras are doubling every minute.

"Alright, let's go see what we're working with here." He says, walking purposefully across the street to the scene.

She's smaller than the other two, and thick brown hair thankfully covers her face hiding the scars I could see from across the street. The crime scene technicians gently roll her, trying to fit her into the body bag, and I watch her limbs move lifelessly. My mind flashes to the hospital in New York and to Hardy, but I instantly try to wipe the comparison from my thoughts. I'm annoyed as I feel my throat constrict and I'm about to turn away to get a grip on myself when I catch a glimpse of something shining out from beneath the collar of the victim's white gown.

I reach out a hand to stop them from zipping up the bag, calling out for a pair of gloves. Carefully reaching under the collar, I feel something metal pinned, and slowly ease it out. Its oblong, an oval of cheap silver metal, and there are spatters of blood on it. I turn it over, wiping it clean to look at the front.

It reads, 'my name is Denise: Ask me how I can help.'

I almost drop it in surprise, pulling my hand back like it has bitten me. Everything seems to slow to a halt, as with great care, I cautiously bring my hand to the victim's head and move the cascading brown hair out of her face.

The eyes are criss-crossed shut by thick black yarn, bloated and discolored from pooling blood and the mouth has been twisted into an elaborate grin, pulled tight to the edges of her face by the same stitching, but I instantly recognize her face as my heart skitters to a halt.

The barista. From the coffee shop last night.

My hand recoils and I push myself away from the body, tripping over my own feet as I scramble backwards. My heart is pounding now and I can't seem to think straight.

It doesn't make sense.

I suddenly feel claustrophobic surrounded by so many people and I brush my way violently past Turner and Perry, searching for some air.

Struggling to keep my breathing normal, I lean against a lamp post. An agent runs after me, forcing the name tag out of my hand and into an evidence bag, but I don't even look at him. My thoughts bounce in my head, fuzzy and unclear and my head spins. Suddenly an one jumps out from the rest and takes me over until I can't think about anything else.

I shout an excuse at Perry and jump into the car Turner brought to the scene, ripping down the streets of Baltimore back to the station. I try not to run down the scattering officers as I tear through the halls to my desk and frantically search through the case file.

I know what I'm looking for, and I know it's a long shot. I pray that I'm wrong.

Finally I find right paper, containing the personal information of the second victim. I scan furiously down the page, searching, until I see it. It glares out like a spot light at me, and I drop the paper in disbelief.

In high school I had known a Taneesha, but her last name wasn't Taylor. In my hours of research I had been focusing on the wrong things, looking for a connection in the wrong place. It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that Taylor might be her married name, and there on the paper is the proof I have been dreading.

Taneesha Taylor was originally Taneesha Carlton-Springer.

The name I knew her by in high school.

It can't be a coincidence.

_I'm the connection._

**Phew! I know there was a lot of condensced medical information in this one, please tell me if it's too much. I hope it was enjoyable and I'll see you all next week!**


	5. Doomed City: part 3

_**Here we go! Finally (for me) here is the last part of doomed city. I hope you enjoy it! I'm sorry if it's a little long- if I should chop it up, let me know.**_

_**OH-HaleyDewit: yes, I do work in the medical field. Thanks for noticing. And in case you were wondering, all of this is actually possible.**_

**Doomed City: part three**

I jiggle my foot anxiously on my knee as I watch the door from my desk.

_Where the hell is he?_

Thirty minutes have gone by since I called Perry, but he still hasn't returned to his office. I check my phone, compulsively, and nearly growl at its continually blank face.

Soon after discovering the connection, I began wrestling with the implications, sinking slowly into my chair. I felt like an idiot for not having seen it earlier. Guilt overwhelmed me as the faces of the women stared up at me from the crime scene photos, each accusing me of their sick deaths due to my involvement with them. I turned the pictures over on my desk to avoid their sewn eyes, and wallowed in hate for a moment. Hate at the bastard doing this, at Joe Carroll for bringing the sicko's out of the woodwork, at myself for having caused the death of four innocent women, however inadvertent it might have been. It's not as if I had wished it on them, or actively participated in their deaths, I only knew them and just barely but I still felt acutely responsible.

Suddenly a thought had struck me. The man wasn't going to just stop now; he must have someone else in mind next. With a sinking feeling, I looked out at the bustling station, my eyes resting on each woman in turn as I wondered to myself: _will it be her? Or her?_ I turned my face quickly away, ridiculously afraid to even make eye contact with any of them. I obsessively considered all the women I've ever known, wondering how on earth to warn them all.

For the first time since coming to Baltimore, I felt completely helpless. At least before I had merely felt incompetent, but now I was entirely at the mercy of some unknown threat, routinely killing off women I had barely the tiniest connection to. I hated that I had no way of figuring out where or who he would kill next. I remembered same feeling of helplessness at the hospital in New York, watching over Hardy and pretending to listen as the nurses and Johanna tried to reassure me with comforting, empty promises-

The thought of Johanna snapped me alert in an instant. Johanna! Of course! What better way to get at me, then the one link I have to Ryan, the only woman I actually trust?

With the pieces finally falling into place, I had snatched up my phone, calling Perry.

And thirty minutes later he has yet to get back to me.

For something to do other than stare at the door, I absently flip through the autopsy report lying on my desk. I scan quickly over the details I know will be there and go straight to the blood analysis, reading it for the millionth time. 'O positive victim filled with B positive blood,' it says, unchanged since the last time. I sigh, shoving the folder away from me. Johanna is O negative, I checked, the only blood type that would be adversely affected by the O positive blood the killer now has an abundance of. Another sick piece to fit into the sick puzzle.

Out of the corner of my eye I finally see Perry enter.

I slide into his office as he's settling down behind his desk. His clothes are still pristine and crisply ironed and I'm amazed that he can stay so together after the past thirty six hours. Not a hair seems out of place, and if anything his jaw seems even more chiseled than before. I wonder at how he seems to get younger as the corpses continue to pile up. Like Dracula, I grimly think to myself, my head swimming with Stoker references.

He's staring at me in the way he does, that makes me feel like I've overstayed my welcome before I've even entered.

"I assume you are feeling better after your behavior at the crime scene?" He asks in a condescending tone.

"Sir, I think I have a lead on the Sheppard case." I say, ignoring him and spreading out a series of papers onto his desk. "I looked back through the files, trying to find any connections between the four victims and I think I've found something. Okay, so Cecile Roberts was a witness in a case six months ago, and she was thinking about entering witness protection before the D.A. found a more substantial witness and the threat to her was removed." I pause to look at him, but he stares at me without encouragement. I forge on. "Taneesha Taylor used to be Taneesha Carlton-Springer before she got married, when we grew up together halfway across the country. Kate was a-" I pause again, and clear my throat before continuing, "Agent Sheppard was an up and coming agent, that I personally only knew briefly, but she worked the case before she became a victim herself. Lastly, Denise was a classical literature major who worked part time at a Starbucks not five hundred feet from this office." I pause for effect. "Well, don't you see the connection?"

Perry blinks his eyes slowly.

"It's me sir. They're all connected to me! I interviewed Roberts, I went to high school with Taylor, I dated Sheppard and I met Denise only hours before she died. Now I think Carroll is-" I start excitedly, but Perry sighs loudly, cutting me off.

"Are we on this again?" he asks, incredulous.

I stare at him. "What?"

"Agent Weston, have you spent _any_ time looking for the actual murderer?" He asks, staring evenly at me and I shift uncomfortably. "Do you have even one suspect? Or anything better than a vague description?"

"Not yet, but-"

"What about the search for Carroll, or how he appears to have risen from the dead? Or the hunt for agent Hardy's attacker?"

The mention of Ryan throws me, and I struggle to stay on track.

"Sir this is a solid connection. And I'm worried-"

"What I'm worried about is that you are more focused on making yourself the center of attention than trying to stop this man from adding another victim to the board out there."

"That's not what this is about!" I clench my fists and attempt to calm myself. "Sir, there's this nurse at Hardy's hospital up in New York-"

"New York?" he interrupts me, "Are you telling me that you want to leave town, in the middle of an investigation that you begged me to give you lead on, to go way outside of the known range of this case, so that you can chase down a threat perceived only by you?" He keeps his voice even and quiet like always, but I sense the tiniest tremor beneath his icy exterior. I sit back, and bite the inside of my cheek, not knowing what to say.

"The answer is no, Agent. You'll stay here and try to actually find the killer."

"But-!" I stand up so fast that I knock my chair over.

"No, Agent Weston. I refuse to allow you to railroad this investigation in some vain attempt to gain publicity or have a mental break down, or whatever it is you're trying to do. And if you can't handle my decision, then perhaps I should find someone else to run this case."

I say nothing, angrily staring anywhere but at Perry.

"Is that clear?" He asks, and I continue to glare at the ceiling as my blood boils. Finally he nods his head, still calm. "Alright. Good. Now get back to work." He points to the door.

I'm still seething as I storm out of his office. I cannot believe the arrogance of Perry. He's been second guessing me every step of the way, putting lives on the line because of his snap, and completely wrong, judgment of me. My teeth clench as I fume, stalking back to my desk. I need to concentrate, I need to get in touch with Johanna and at least warn her, if I can't leave the city.

Ignoring the looks other agents are giving me I snap open my laptop and fire up the internet. It takes me only a second to track down the number I need, and I nearly smack my phone off the desk as I pick it up and dial. It rings several times before I hear a pleasant voice pick up on the other side.

"Sixth floor, how can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a nurse that works on your floor. Her name is Johanna?" There is a pause on the other side. I have to check my phone twice to make sure the call is still connected. Right as I'm about to hang up, I hear someone come back.

"She's not on the floor tonight, can I take a message?" She offers sweetly, and I absently wonder which of the nurses she is. I try to focus.

"No, no. Do you know when she'll be working again?" I close my eyes and berate myself for even following up on this. Of course Perry is right, although maybe not about why. I _haven't_ found any leads, and was obviously just clutching at the first semi-decent theory I came across. I can't believe I let myself become so easily distracted on such an important case. _Just like me_, I think, _I finally get a chance to prove myself and I go flying off the deep end._ I've almost forgotten I'm on the phone when the cheery voice comes back.

"Actually, I don't know when she'll be back. She left kinda fast about halfway through her shift last night, and called to say she was sick. She didn't show up tonight." She pauses, "Was that helpful?"

/\/\/\/\/\

I shift my weight, shaking my leg that has fallen asleep and try not to think about how I am probably flushing my career down the toilet. The car is enveloped suddenly in darkness as I enter the Holland Tunnel, the lights strobing and I make the slow ascent into New York City.

I had tried to get Johanna's address from the polite nurse on the phone, but even after I told her multiple times that I was a federal agent, she had refused to tell me. Frustrated, I turned to the FBI database and was eventually able to track her down through the hospital's employment files, finding an address for an apartment building in Queen's. I sneaked past Perry's open door and bolted before he, my brain, or anything else could catch up to me.

After staring at the same endless, empty highway for four and a half hours, I'm starting to lose energy so I finish the last of my cold coffee. I ordered it as I left Baltimore, from a Starbucks that was well out of my way. I couldn't stop at the one close to the station, couldn't bear to look at the faces of the friends and coworkers of the girl who, I'm starting to believe, might still be alive if I hadn't stopped to boost my ego after Perry had deflated it.

As I enter New York, I glance up at the tall buildings, fighting off the creeping fingers of doubt clawing at my brain. I think about how ironically close Ryan is, and I achingly wish I could call him up. If I could just talk to him and have him confirm that I'm not completely insane, that I'm doing the right thing even if it feels absolutely stupid. I drive silently for a second, before shaking my head and clearing my thoughts. _No point in wishing_, I think, _and if I didn't at least physically check on Johanna I would go crazy wondering,_ I attempt to convince myself.

I pull into the 103rd precinct in Queens, practically bounding up the steps. The Lieutenant brusquely welcomes me as I enter his office. He's an older guy, stout with a large bald head and thick neck, and watches me curiously from underneath drooping eyelids.

"I was surprised to get your call Agent Weston," he starts in a low gruff voice, groaning as he lowers himself into his chair.

"I appreciate you helping me out, sir. I could use a little local backup."

"Anything to help the bureau," he responds, waving to a worn bench behind me. I sit. "So, you guys have been trying to find this nurse?"

"She may be vital to a current investigation." I answer noncommittally.

"Does the FBI believe she is a suspect?"

"We believe she may be in danger." I try to keep my voice steady, telling myself it's not completely a lie. He stares for a second before nodding, pulling a file out from under a huge messy pile and I breathe a little easier.

"Well you didn't give us a hell of a lot of time, but we did get a couple of things done you asked for. We did a preliminary search of Ms. Johanna's apartment; mo one appears to be at home, but we couldn't get much else without a warrant. But that shouldn't be a problem for you, huh?" He chuckles to himself, and I look away, trying to appear bored.

"As for the hospital; security cameras captured a car leaving the parking lot twenty minutes after it entered, around 4 am yesterday," he continues, coughing loudly and glancing outside his window to the busy precinct floor beyond. "The nurse's phone call to her job was made ten minutes after that. We traced the plate from the footage to a vehicle that was reported as stolen in Maryland four days ago." I relish the small triumph. "And we got this picture off the camera." He slides me a blurry photograph of a worn blue Cadillac, the driver in grainy profile. "We don't know much, except that the driver is black and between the ages of nineteen and fifty." I glance up at him quickly.

"Black?" I ask, thinking of the witness back in Baltimore. Could it be the same man? But how could he be in Maryland to string up Denise this evening but also in New York over twenty four hours ago to snatch Johanna? "Are you sure?"

"Yes, but a large majority of the hospital staff is African-American, as well as the nurse herself. It could be a coincidence, or a kidnapping or maybe just a friend of hers." He sighs, "Hell, it might even be her driving," he adds discouragingly. I toss the photo aside.

"Is that all you have?" I ask.

"Well son, technically we aren't even sure there has been a crime committed, except for the stolen car." He says and I lean back, rubbing my eyes. "She might be off visiting a relative and didn't tell anyone."

"Sure. That's obviously the best case scenario." I try to keep sarcasm out of my voice and anxiously check my phone. 1:08 AM. I tap my hand nervously on the edge of the lieutenant's desk. Perry will hopefully not have noticed my absence yet, but I can't be too sure, and once he does it will only be a matter of time before he tracks down where I've gone to. All it would take was one phone call and my investigation into Johanna's disappearance would be stalled.

I look up as an officer puts his head through the door.

"They found the car, sir. It's in Brooklyn: Sunset Park near the warehouses." He reports, "the officers on the scene did a quick sweep. No one is in it, but there is blood on the seat." I ignore the tightening in my stomach. "We believe that if she is on the scene she would be inside one of the buildings, sir."

"That'll do, thank you." The lieutenant says, nodding and dismissing the man. He turns back to me. "It's not far from here. It could be this has nothing to do with her though. Whoever stole the car might just have ditched it." He pauses, "So? What's our next move?"

It takes me a second to realize he's addressing me. I try to cover my surprise by standing and examining the map he has on the wall. I can feel him looking at me and my mind goes momentarily blank. I can't think, and I wrack my brain for an official sounding answer.

"I think we should check it out." I respond, cringing at the uncertainty in my voice. He looks at me, puzzled. I have a moment of fear, and think hysterically what Ryan would do. _Nothing_, I think, _he wouldn't respond. Although, he would also already have a crazy plan. But he wouldn't take any crap from anyone. _

So I turn slowly and stare him down, trying to look as bored and intimidating and incredulous as possible and pray it doesn't come out looking like I need to take a crap.

He stares back at me, and then sighs. "It'll take thirty minutes to get a thermal scanner set up, but we don't really have time. We'll need to send a team into the warehouses, if you care to lead them."

"Me?" I ask, and then remember I'm supposed to be intimidating. "Hell yes I would." I respond and ignore the sinking feeling in my gut.

/\/\/\/\/\

All I can hear is my own heart beat as I move silently deeper and deeper into the warehouse. The walls are made of metal, old and rusted, offering no insulation from the cold air outside. Flakes of ancient paint crunch on the cement floor beneath my shoes, and I pause to listen before continuing on, carefully avoiding them. The warehouse is huge; a maze of different sized rooms and endless corridors, each as empty as the last, and I think discouragingly of how many places there must be to hide a captive.

_Or a body_, the happy thought crosses my mind before I can wave it away. My hand is slick on my gun, my palms sweaty, and I realize I'm grasping it so tightly my fingers have gone numb. I relax slightly, but keep a firm grip. At least my aim is steady, the nerves that are twisted and vibrating inside me not showing in my stance. I enter room after room, sweeping the gun from side to side, trying to clear my head and focus.

I enter a large room, filled with old broken construction equipment and tall ceilings that disappear up into the gloom. A network of complicated cat walks cross back and forth through the air above me, and I'm momentarily distracted when my flashlight bounces of them. They seem to be falling, gaining on me, and I duck and roll to the corner, but when I look back up they are perfectly still, solid and unmovable.

_Pull it together_, I think, as I wipe my brow with my arm, trying to keep my arm pointed straight and covering the room. I quietly radio in before crossing the massive space, my eyes darting at every shadow. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise as I sense something looming behind me, but when I turn, the room is empty. I point my flashlight behind me, scanning, but it's no help. Whenever I pass the light over anything, it only doubles the shadows surrounding it, making them jump wildly as I become more and more nervous. Everywhere I turn I feel like there's something just out of eyesight moving, creeping. Finally I click it off.

I'm staring up at the catwalks again when my foot accidentally kicks an abandoned beer can. It clatters like thunder across the floor and I freeze, crouching and cursing silently. I sit for a solid minute, and force my heart beat to return to normal._ Too loud, too loud_, I berate myself. The building creaks around me, the wind howling through its deserted corridors as wait.

My legs begin to cramp beneath me, and I listen to the reports over the radio as section after section is given the all clear. I shiver as the cold air rushes up the sleeves of my jacket, and allow myself to finally consider the situation I've dragged myself into.

I am an absolute idiot.

I'm sitting; alone, freezing and stiff in a huge warehouse, hundreds of miles away from the active investigation, against orders- probably completely destroying my career- and for what? A hunch. A wild, implausible hunch. How incredibly stupid was I, how desperate? Who the hell did I think I was?

The bullet proof vest I'm wearing starts digging in to my shoulder, and I pull on it impatiently. I'm just deciding that I should try and find the others and simultaneously drafting my letter of resignation in my head, when I hear a clatter.

I freeze, holding my breath as I listen for the sound again, half certain I imagined it. I pull my ear piece out, straining to concentrate on the silence around me. It comes again, off to my left, followed by a quiet string of curses. I scan the gloom, but I can't see anything, and I don't want to risk turning my flashlight back on.

I sit perfectly still, and after a few minutes my eyes begin to adjust and I see a faint light coming from the other end of the room. I take in my options before quickly making my way to the nearest ladder and climbing up to the walkway above.

I can dimly make out the floor thirty feet below as I stealthily make my way across the room. The light becomes less and less faint as I come closer, and appears to be coming from behind a large piece of equipment. My steps don't make a sound on the narrow walkway but it's made of thin, criss-crossed metal and I sometimes catch a glimpse of the distant ground. I avoid looking down, vertigo overcoming me. I can tell that the light is flickering now, like from a fire, and I wonder if I might be sneaking up on a hobo or car thief or a group of teenagers. The large amount of empty beer cans and bottles that littered the floor of nearly every room are leaning me towards the kids.

I'm almost to the light source and halfway to convincing myself that I can add endangering minors by threatening them with a loaded gun to my long list of mistakes when I finally pass over a large crane and into the dim light.

And find Johanna.

She's on a long metal table that has been covered in blankets, her head rolled to the side and with a sickening feeling I see blood in her hair. A man is bending over her, fussing with her legs, and when he stands back I see that they are tied to the table. She groans when he pulls on the cables holding her down, but her eyes remain closed. As he shifts a large black duffle bag, I take advantage of the loud clinking noise it makes and quietly radio for back up. I train my gun on him, settling to wait for the rest of the team to arrive, and watch.

He's Chinese, early twenties, and incredibly pale with long black hair pulled into a pony tail and a large black trench coat that flaps as he hastily moves around. He's wearing black beneath that too, and I realize with a smile that he is trying to dress like a vampire. I'm about to roll my eyes, when he pulls out a long, thin tube and I see a flash of metal in the dim light. As he carefully brings a long, thick needle up to her neck, my arms tighten and I cock my gun.

The small click echoes and I see him stiffen. We both freeze.

The seconds tick by as my heart thumps painfully in my chest. Every inch of me seems to be vibrating as my eyes follow him. I'm momentarily relieved when he moves away from Johanna's still form and I can see the needle resting on the sheet beside her. He takes several steps back, moving his head slowly from side to side.

I shift my position, and the metal creaks beneath my weight. His head darts in my direction, but he's still looking at his level instead of up and he doesn't see me. He takes a few more steps forward around to the side of the massive crane he's shielded himself behind, but not finding anyone there, he returns to Johanna.

I see confusion and frustration cross his face. His eyes dart back and forth.

"I know you're there," he says in a high strained voice, "come out where I can see you right now."

I stay as still as humanly possible, training my aim on him and praying he won't get the idea to just look _up_. I have absolutely no cover, and he would see me in an instant.

He cocks his head to the side, listening. More seconds tick by. He's becoming more and more frustrated as I continue to watch, holding my breath.

"Come on, come on. Where are you?" He mutters, twisting around. "Huh? You fucking coward, where are you?"

He darts his hand down to the duffle back and pulls out a pocket knife. Ripping the blade out, he thrusts it towards Johanna, poising it above her throat. My stomach tightens.

"Not the way I like to do things, but I will if you don't fucking come out!" he screams, his hand shaking. My eyes widen and I wonder hysterically where the hell everyone else is. He shakes his head in anger, starting to bring the knife down, when I run out of patience and bolt upright.

"I'm here, I'm here." I yell, as his head whips around to me and I point my gun at him. "Federal Agent, step away from the woman." I'm thrilled at how evenly it comes out, until he grins widely at me.

"Sweet. Michael Weston." He nods enthusiastically and I tighten the grip on my gun. "Ah, ah!" He keeps his hand poised, "You think my hand wouldn't move at all if you shoot me?"

Growling, I lower my gun as he waves me down. I move slowly to the nearest ladder, my eyes never leaving the blade at Johanna's throat until we're twenty feet away.

Up close I can see he's sweating under his Goth costume, and he continually flexes and unflexes his hand, shifting the blade. Johanna is still mercifully unconscious, and I watch her chest rise and fall with alert eyes, praying she won't move in her sleep.

I place my gun down on the ground as he instructs me to do, kicking it towards him and taking a few steps back. My eyes sweep the area as I weigh my options. There isn't much to work with. The space is lit by a low fire burning in a small barrel, and it distorts my vision. The table with Johanna on it is between us, the duffle bag beneath it. He sees me eyeing it and shuffles it behind him, and I hear glass rattling within. He keeps himself between me and the bag, guarding it with his body. I can hear his breathing, heavy and quick as he glances back and forth between me and the gun that is still too far for him to reach, unsure of what to do. I try to look as relaxed as possible.

"So, what happens now?" I ask, in my most nonchalant voice.

"Shut up." He says, his eyes darting.

"You don't know what to do, do you?" I pick at my fingernails, and he runs a shaky hand across his forehead.

"Shut _up_."

"You don't. Where's your precious Carroll to tell you what to do now?"

"I said shut the fuck up!" he screams. "You think I need him to tell me what to do? I decide what happens next. This is MY show!" he shakes the blade at me. "I've done this before; you've seen what I can do. You want me to show you? I can show you!"

He's shaking with anger, a wild smile crossing his face that sends shivers up my spine. He begins to fiddle one handed with a thin plastic chord, an IV chord, connecting it to the needle lying next to Johanna. I follow it as it snakes off the table to the ground.

"I can make your life hell. I already have, Michael." My name slithers out of his mouth, and his eyes take on a fanatical gleam. "'For even if he be not harmed, his heart may fail him from so many horrors;'" his voice takes on a deeper, rhythmic tone, "'and hereafter he may suffer-both in waking, from his nerves, and in sleep, from his dreams.'" He laughs. "Of course, that's a bastardized quote, but I doubt you care. I said DON'T MOVE!"

I've been inching closer to the gun during his tirade, but I stop short. He grins, pulling a large glass bottle filled with a dark, red liquid out of the bag. He shakes it, smiling at me while the liquid sloshes within. He connects the IV to it and I belatedly realize it is filled Denise's blood.

"Have you enjoyed watching every bitch you touch turn into a corpse?" He mocks, pulling another bottle out.

I narrow my eyes at him and stay silent. He laughs again.

"That girl from the coffee shop was my favorite. She screamed and screamed when I stitched up her eyes." He pauses, smiling in reflection before snapping his eyes back on me. "I always start with the eyes, you see. I hate when they fucking stare at me. But she had kinda nice ones, didn't she? Nice rack too, I had a good time getting her in the gown." He makes a nasty gesture with his hands, snickering. "She was sort of spur of the moment thing, you know, I had someone else picked out. But when you walked in there, it inspired me. You killed her, Michael."

"You killed her, you son-of-a-bitch." I blurt out before I can stop myself, but my face is hot with anger and I feel sick listening to him. He rolls his eyes.

"You are so fucking easy to get to. Hardy was so much tougher; I don't know why Joe wants us-"

He stops mid sentence and we hear a crash in the distance. He glances momentarily behind him, taking a few steps away from Johanna.

I only hesitate for a second.

I'm flying across the room and picking up my gun as he turns around. He sees me and screams with rage, running towards Johanna with his knife clutched in his hand like a dagger and aimed at her heart.

I don't even blink. I pull the trigger twice.

His body hits the ground with a loud, wet thump; his head crashing into the cement floor.

I stand completely still, my arm still stiffly outstretched. It seems unbearably silent, the only sound coming from my own ragged breathing. The fire crackles and pops, startling me and I swivel my gun hastily at it. The body on the floor is still, and I try to make my legs move but they won't listen. Finally I stagger over to him, keeping my gun trained and turning him with my foot. Glassy eyes sightlessly look up at me, and for a freak second I can't think about anything but him complaining about his victim's eyes staring at him.

I wrench the pocket knife out of his hand and hastily saw at the chords tying Johanna to the table. Summoning strength I'm not entirely sure I have, I heave her off the make-shift bed and carry her several feet away. I sit her up against a machine, radioing instantly for the backup that still hasn't arrived. As I listen to their frantic reply, I try to wake her gently.

Her eyelids flutter after a minute, and I let out a giant sigh of relief.

"Agen' weson?" she asks, confused.

Her eyes try to focus on me, but her head seems too heavy for her to lift. She glances to the side and we both look at nightmare scene beside us. It's silent now, and the place looks ironically like someone's living area. Disturbingly domestic with its rough bed, scattered belongings and makeshift fire; except for the pool of blood widening around the crumpled body, you would never know that an innocent life was almost lost here, and a not so innocent one ended.

She's still staring, and brings her hands sluggishly to her face. "I thing I've been ki' nabbed." She says, he voice slurring. I'm trying to keep myself calm, but I'm delirious that she's alright.

"Yeah, you were. But you're okay now. Hey easy!" I have to literally hold her down as she tries to push herself to her feet. "Chill out. You've had a rough night."

Tears are threatening to fill her eyes, but she keeps herself together.

"Well, wha' doesn' kill you..." she says weakly.

I laugh out loud and give her a full, winning smile as the back-up team finally arrives.

/\/\/\/\/\

Perry looks the same as ever when he arrives by helicopter a few hours later. I tear myself free of the paramedics and make my way over to him. He looks down at me for a long second before squinting up at the bright lights illuminating the warehouse.

"Want to tell me why didn't you wait for back up Weston?" His voice is quiet. I force my stance to be rigidly professional.

"I called it in, but I didn't have time to wait. He was threatening the victim."

"She doesn't recall that."

"She was unconscious sir." I pause. "Is there a problem?"

"There are just a few… inconsistencies. For instance, she never actually saw her kidnapper. He stayed in the shadows and the back seat of the car as he gave her instructions. She only heard his voice, and now we can't use that as an ID." I shrug. "We also ran a check on the dead young man in there, Thomas Lee, and he has a history. A mental health history. He dropped out of medical school about a year ago after having a breakdown. He's local, and is known to the local police. He's homeless, Weston, and he's been seen squatting in buildings in the area."

"In the past two weeks?" I ask.

His stare is even. "No one can confirm that."

"So he could have been in Baltimore. And the stolen car was from Maryland and ended up here." I add helpfully, and Perry nods.

"Yes, yes. The timeline could fit, if he had help. But they seem to believe he wasn't really in touch with anyone on this planet, let alone outside the city." He pauses. "And the duffle bag you mentioned is missing." I shrug again, yawning, but when I look up at Perry he's looking intently at me again. The other shoe finally drops.

"Wait, are you saying you're not sure that man was the kidnapper?" I ask cautiously. "That maybe I got confused and just shot some crazy homeless guy?"

"We have to be sure of the specifics whenever there is an OIS, you know that." He responds, surprisingly soothingly, but I feel my face heating up.

"Are you fucking kidding me? He had her tied to a table and was threatening her with a knife. He-" I cut myself off, anger overwhelming me. "You seriously don't believe me?" I ask.

"I believe you saw a threat and handled it as you've been trained." He responds, noncommittally.

"Not a ringing endorsement, sir."

"Weston, I will stand behind you," He says curtly, "but I have to be sure of the facts. You have to understand how it looks." He pauses, but all I can do is glare straight ahead of me. "I just want to make sure all dots are connected."

I remain silent. seething.

"Alright. In retrospect, you were on point about a lot things and I'm prepared to give you credit for that. And even if you deliberately disobeyed orders and we disagree on why, that woman was kidnapped by _someone_ and is alive, thanks to you."

Perry watches me for a second and through the red that's conquering my vision I swear I see compassion in his eyes. But it's gone in a second, and he nods. "Alright, alright. That's enough for now." He says dismissively, "Go get yourself checked out and get some sleep. You've earned it."

I turn and snappishly leave him. I circle around, away from the ambulances and walk straight to the nearest agent and bark at him to drive me to a hotel. I try to stay angry, to be pissed at Perry and Thomas whatshisname and the whole nasty world in general, but as we drive off the events of the day crash on top of me like a tsunami and exhaustion gets the best of me. I'm asleep before we get two blocks away.

_/\/\/\/\/\/\/_

A phone rings out in the middle of the night, jarring me from sleep. I'm twisted up in the covers of a bed, the sheets having twined around me as I tossed and turned. I stare at my surroundings, momentarily confused, until I remember: New York. Bad guy- Thomas something. Johanna. Argument with Perry. Hotel- I'm in a hotel room. The phone rings again and I snatch up my cell, staring confused at the blank screen. As the phone rings a third time, I toss my damn cell aside, realizing it's the room phone and hurriedly answer it.

"Mm-Weston," I murmur, groggily studying the clock and finding the hour more than depressing. I flop back against the pillows and fight the heaviness of my eye lids. I lose. I think I might have drifted off when the voice on the phone replies.

"I am terribly sorry about the way things turned out tonight." Carroll drawls, and I bolt upright, my eyes snapping open.

"Carroll?" I ask stupidly, but my mind is racing. I struggle with the sheets, trying to find my cell to record the conversation or track the call.

"Obviously things did not work out for in the best interest of either of us," he continues, "but, 'we learn from failure, not from success,' dear Michael."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"That's Bram Stoker of course. Did you enjoy learning something new?" He seems genuinely interested and it sends shivers down my spine. "Did you learn from your failure?"

"If you think I see shooting your guy as a failure-"

I'm interrupted by a loud, earsplitting, unearthly screech. It takes me by surprise and I drop both phones, clutching my ringing ear. A few seconds pass before I pick the receiver back up and bring it gingerly to the other ear.

"What the fuck was that?" I demand. There is an awkward pause.

"'I'm going to smile,'" He continues, as if nothing happened, "'and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.'"

"What?" The randomness throws me. He could be speaking French for all the sense he's making.

"Just a little teaser." He chuckles. "Brace yourself. It's going to be a bumpy road ahead. And Michael?" There is a thrill in his voice, that stops me cold. I answer warily.

"Yes?"

"I can't promise a happy ending this time."

/\/\/\/\/\/\

**Thanks everyone for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! The next series (tenatively titled _Never Bet the Devil Your Head)_ will begin soon. Please feel free to review, including any criticism you have. I know the chapters were a little lengthy and I hope the medical stuff wasn't overwhelming (I get a little excited).**

** See you all soon, and I hope everyone enjoys the season 2 premiere this sunday!**


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